Page 106 of Violent Pawn

“What are you doing?”

Zeno went to Moscow for the week, yet his voice—judgemental, curious, and a bit cautious—has my attention lifting from both vices.

“Why are you home?”

He crosses the room, hands in his front pockets. “Ana received quite the delivery, so I figured you may need to talk.”

“Since when do we talk about shit like this?”

He drops onto the couch across from me and kicks one leg over the other. “Exactly. We don’t. Maybe we should start.”

“Tea time and gossip, Z? My, your upcoming wedding is changing you. Making you emotional and shit.”

He kicks his free leg out but misses me by a mile. “Fuck you. Make all the jokes you want, but I’m serious. Your Cayman Islands trip clearly went well, as did your travels after the fact.” He pauses, waiting for me to admit something I won’t, so it leaves us in a bubble of tense silence. “I saw the box, Nero.”

I toast with the bottle. “Cheers to the asshole’s death. Four more.”

“You were right about the paperwork trail. Feel better?”

Better would not be gripping alcohol like a lifeline.

Better would be having Ana beside me.

“No.”

“Wow, we’re getting somewhere. See, I knew this talking shit would pay off.”

My middle finger lifts, sending a lewd and silent gesture his way, which he only laughs at. “What do you want me to say?”

“Say nothing. I’m curious what’s happening here, though.” He jerks his chin at both the bottle and my phone.

I toss him the device, letting him see the pictures—if he didn’t already read the book. While he reads, I could attempt to drink. Drown myself within my misery and forget everything of life and the world until the wedding where I’ll inevitably be near her. A day I’m dreading and perhaps planning on dying beforehand to escape from, but also one anticipated.

My cell lands on the leather couch to my right as he tosses it back. The bottle slides further up my thigh as I lean back, other hand ready to twist the top off; to crack it open and forget within the sweet amber colour that reminds me so. Fucking. Much. Of her.

My Capo, my friend, he watches, waiting for me to decide. As if he has any fucking idea of the storm bustling inside my head. The signals demanding to chug and flee from reality. The monster clawing my stomach open, begging to be sated.

The bottle itself reminds me of the club I attended with her. It’s the same brand I drank that night.

Alcohol ultimately led me to Anastasia. It’s been my means of healing through the culpability about Giovanni. It made Anastasia look twice. She put me to bed—being disgusted and said she’d only talk to me sober. After that, seeing her smile became stronger than the high. She was my high. Nothing in any bottle anywhere could be stronger than what being beside her did for my body.

After that, drinking became casual. A comfort to get through the pre-wedding shit and the fact Zeno would always be down a parent. The more time with her, the less I craved the liquor. The less I cared about Zeno’s parental absences.

Then I fucked up, and she left me with a broken heart and shattered soul. The fix of which was only discovered at the bottom of a bottle.

Can the past few months be considered healing? Sometimes days pass without any recollection. At some point, Elio and Zeno’s faces would swim into reality. Sometimes together, other times separate. All the time angry and annoyed and pulling me from somewhere. Sometimes bed, sometimes the floor. They’d toss me into the shower, douse me, and then send me off to work.

After a few weeks, their attention thankfully decreased. They began leaving me to my misery. Days would pass before remembering to shower and restock my liquor cabinet for the next round, as staff continued the endless deliveries I demanded.

They didn’t give up on me, not really. Zeno’s here. Elio calls every morning, even when I can’t answer.

She gave up on me, though.

And that’s why I twist the lid, the cracking filling the room.

My best friend sighs because he knows what’s coming. He’s aware the only way to heal is to forget. If she’ll never forgive me, there’s no real point in sobriety. She grounds me. Everything I do for her fixes me. Everything I do with her fulfills me in ways drinking never does.

I remained sober for her when attending her show. To slip away to Moscow, I couldn’t take Zeno’s plane, which meant getting on the commercial flight without being sloshed. After the show, escaping became my entire focus, and I didn’t stop moving until I was seated on the plane. The little shots on the airplane were a start but nowhere enough.